985 
N4-58 


N  ALPHABET 
of  HISTORY 


o 


WORDS  by  WILBUR  D.  NESBJT 
PICTURES  by  ELLSWORTH  YOUNG 


AN  ALPHABET 
OF  HISTORY 

77?e  Words  by  Wilbur 

D  •Nesbit  -  The  Pictures 
bt/  Ellsworth 


Who  frets  about  the  mysier.x 
Enshrouding  all  of  historx 
On  reading  this  will,  maybe,  see 
Weve  made  it  plain  as  A,  B.C. 


P&u/JE/cter  ancf  Company 

,  San  Francisco 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

In  their  original  form,  the  contents  of  this 
book  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Sunday  Tribune, 
which  newspaper  is  hereby  thanked  for 
the  privilege  of  reproducing  this  Alphabet 


Copyright,  1905 

by  Paul  Elder  and  Company 

San  Francisco 


The  Tomoye  Press 
San  Francisco 


LEXANDER 
THE  GREAT 


Alexander  the  Great  was  a  victim  of  fate, 

And  he  sighed  there  was  naught  to  delight  him 

When  he  brandished  his  sword  and  defiantly  roared 
And  could  not  get  a  country  to  fight  him. 

All  the  armies  he'd  chased,  all  the  lands  laid  to 
waste, 

And  he  clamored  for  further  diversions ; 
And  our  history  speaks  of  his  grip  on  the  Greeks 

And  his  hammerlock  hold  on  the  Persians. 

Though  the  Gordian  knot,  cut  in  two,  in  a  spot 

In  his  palace  was  labeled  a  relic, 
Though  Bucephalus,  stuffed,  gave  him  fame,  he  was 
huffed  — 

He  was  grouchy  and  grumpy,  was  Aleck. 

And  the  cause  of  his  woe,  he  would  have  you  to 
know, 

Was  the  fact  that  he  never  was  able 
To  conduct  a  big  scrap  that  a  versatile  chap 

Of  a  war  correspondent  would  cable. 

'Stead  of  being  quite  glad,  he  would  grow  very  sad 
When  he  told  of  the  fellows  who'd  fought  him, 

As  he  thought  of  the  lack  of  the  clicking  kodak 
In  the  hands  of  a  man  to  "  snapshot "  him. 

We  are  told  that  he  wept,  and  in  dolefulness  crept 
Through  his  palace  —  the  reason  is  hinted: 

There  were  not  at  that  time  magazines  for  a  dime, 
And  his  articles  could  not  be  printed. 

Though  it  may  seem  unkind,  ere  his  life  we've 

outlined, 

We  must  say  in  some  ways  he  was  hateful ; 
And  in  truth,  we  have  heard  he  went  back  on  his 

word, 
And  was  not  Alexander  the  Grateful. 


340146 


RUTUS 


Back  in  the  time  of  Rome  sublime, 
There  lived  great  Julius  Caesar 

Who  wore  the  crown  with  haughty 

frown 
And  was  a  frosty  geezer. 

Three  times,  they  say,  upon  the  way 
Called  Lupercal,  they  fetched  it 

For  him  to  wear,  but  then  and  there 

He  said  they  should  have  stretched  it. 

And  we  are  told  that  Jule  was  cold 

And  frigid  as  Alaska, 
Ambitious,  too,  —  that  would  not  do 

For  Cassius  and  Casca. 

They  told  their  friends:  "It  all  depends 

On  having  things  to  suit  us. 
We  think  that  Jule  is  much  too  cool ; 

Let  us  conspire  with  Brutus." 

They  furthermore  let  out  this  roar : 
"  Shall  Caesar  further  scoff  us  ? 

Next  week,  they  say,  he'll  have  his  way 
About  the  Rome  postoffice." 

With  dirk  and  sword  in  togas  stored  — 
You  know  those  times  they  wore  'em  — 

They  made  a  muss  of  Ju-li-us 
One  morning  in  the  Forum. 

With  "  Et  tu,  Brute  ?  "  J.  C.  grew  mute. 

( Some  claim  it's  "  Et  tu,  Bru-te  "  ; 
We  mention  it  both  whole  and  split 

As  is  our  bounden  duty.) 

Mark  Antony  arose,  and  he 

Talked  some,  —  we  shall  not  quote  it; 
We've  understood  'twas  not  as  good 

As  when  Bill  Shakespeare  wrote  it. 

Then  Brutus  skipped  lest  he  be  nipped  — 

And  since  his  dissolution 
He's  been  accused  and  much  abused 

In  schools  of  elocution. 


HRISTOMER 
COLUMBUS 


When  Christopher  Columbus  stood  the  egg  upon 

its  end, 
He  solved  a  weighty  problem  that  no  one  could 

comprehend  — 
Perhaps  it  was  the  puzzle  whose  solution  clearly 

showed 
The  psychologic  motives  of  the  hen  that  crossed 

the  road. 
Perhaps  cold  storage  minstrels  never  might  have 

heard  of  this 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Chris. 

Columbus  packed  his  little  grip  and  got  upon  the 

train 
And  went  to  see  that  noble  man,  King  Ferdinand 

of  Spain. 

Result:    He  found  America  —  oh,  do  not  idly  nod, 
For  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  we  couldn't  go  abroad  ! 
Just  think  of  all  the  travel  and  the  voyages  we'd 

miss 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Chris. 

Columbus  found  America  and  won  a  lot  of  fame  — 
Nobody  ever  thought  to  ask  him  how  he  knew  its 

name; 
Nobody  ever  booked  him  for  some  lectures  to 

declare 
In  eloquent  assertions  how  he  knew  the  land  was 

there. 
Today  we  might  be  savages,  unknowing  modern 

bliss, 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Chris. 

He  landed  near  Havana,  and  he  said:  "It  seems 

to  me 
That  sometime  in  the  future  little  Cuby  shall  be 

free." 
His  vision  was  prophetic  —  far  adown  the  future's 

track 
He  saw  the  dauntless  Hobson  and  the  sinking 

Merrimac. 
We  might  have  still  been  tyros  in  the  ethics  of 

the  kiss 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  Chris. 

Today  there  are  big  cities  and  big  buildings  named 

for  him, 

And  yet  he  was  so  poor  that  once  he  thought  he'd  have  to  swim 
To  find  this  wondrous  country,  for  he  was  so  badly  broke ; 
But  Isabella  nobly  put  her  watch  and  ring  in  soak. 
Who  knows  but  Isabella  never  might  have  thought  of  this 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  Chris  ? 


IOGENES 


Diogenes  lived  in  a  tub 

His  fellows  analyzing ; 
These  words  were  carved  upon  his  club: 

"  First  Class  Philosophizing." 
If  any  question  came  his  way 
Involving  people's  morals, 
The  things  that  he  felt  moved  to  say 
Were  sure  to  start  some  quarrels. 
In  fact,  his  tub  became  a  booth 
In  which  he  dealt  in  wholesale  truth. 

This  world  was  but  a  fleeting  show  — 

He  knew  a  lot  about  it; 
When  he  was  told  a  thing  was  so 

He  then  began  to  doubt  it. 
He  seldom  left  his  narrow  home  — 

Not  even  on  a  Sunday ; 
The  only  time  that  he  would  roam 

Abroad  was  on  a  Monday. 
He  had  to  roam  then,  anyway, 
For  that,  you  know,  is  washing  day. 

Society,  with  all  its  sham, 

Gave  him  a  paroxysm ; 
He  always  spoke  in  epigram 

And  thought  in  aphorism. 
One  day  he  took  his  lantern  down 

And  polished  it  and  lit  it  — 
But  first  he  frowned  a  peevish  frown 

And  growled :  "  The  wick  don't  fit  it." 
And  then,  with  pessimistic  scan, 
He  sought  to  find  an  honest  man. 

Diogenes  has  long  been  dead ; 

His  search  was  not  well  heeded, 
For  no  historian  has  said 

If  ever  he  succeeded. 
But  there's  this  thought  for  you  and  me: 

It  would  not  be  quite  pleasant 
If  on  that  quest  the  sage  should  be 

With  his  fierce  light,  at  present. 
For,  if  he  were,  one  may  but  think 
How  much  that  light  would  make  him  blink. 


URIPIDES 


Euripides,  of  ancient  Greece, 

Excelled  in  things  dramatic ; 
He  could  sit  down  and  write  a  piece 

Mild  tempered  or  emphatic; 
The  dramatists  of  modern  days  — 

No  matter  how  much  they  write  — 
Can  never  equal  Rippy's  ways, 
For  he  was  quite  a  playwright. 

When  Rippy  took  his  pen  in  hand 

The  scenes  would  flow  like  magic ; 
Though  humor  came  at  his  command 

His  penchant  was  the  tragic ; 
He  often  wrote  a  little  speech 

That  was  extremely  pleasant  — 
His  jests  were  lasting  —  all  and  each 

Are  still  used  at  the  present. 

Euripides  was  serious  — 

He  thought  he  had  a  mission. 
He  said,  "By  writing  thus  and  thus 

I'll  elevate  the  Grecian." 
However,  though  he  oft  produced 

His  works  in  manner  spurty, 
He  never  wrote  a  thing  to  boost 

The  vogue  of  ten,  twent',  thirty. 

In  fact,  his  works  could  have  been  played 

In  goodly  style  with  no  girls  — 
He  never  used  the  soubrette  maid 

Or  based  his  play  on  show  girls ; 
And,  this  for  old  Euripides : 

In  none  of  all  his  dramas 
Did  he  observe  the  modern  pleas 

For  chorus  in  pajamas. 

Euripides  was  Athens'  Fitch 

Or  her  Augustus  Thomas  — 
It's  really  hard  to  say  just  which, 

But  he  was  full  of  promise. 
It's  time  that  Rippy  had  his  due 

And  got  his  share  of  glory, 
For  royalties  he  never  knew 

And  no  press  agent's  story. 


RANKLIN 


Fame  twined  a  wreath  on  Franklin's  brow 

A-many  years  ago  — 
And  yet,  how  many  people  now 

The  reason  for  it  know? 
Was  it  because  he  wisely  wrote 

Poor  Richard's  Almanac 
( One  of  the  few,  we  pause  to  note, 
Which  testimonials  lack)? 

Was  Franklin's  fame  the  sure  result 

Of  his  philosophy  ? 
(No  mental  cure  or  psychic  cult 

Or  Great  Uplift  had  he.) 
Was  it  because  for  years  and  years 

He  was  a  diplomat? 
Why,  no.    What  person  ever  hears 

About  such  things  as  that? 

Then  what  did  wise  Ben  Franklin  do 

That  he  should  merit  fame? 
That  each  edition  of  "  Who's  Who  " 

In  bold  type  puts  his  name? 
He  flew  his  kite;  he  had  the  key 

His  front  door  to  unlock  — 
Like  countless  other  men,  then  he 

Acquired  a  sudden  shock. 

The  trolley  cars  and  dynamos 

And  incandescent  light 
And  buzzing  fan  which  coolness  blows 

All  date  from  Franklin's  kite. 
But,  what  an  oversight  of  Fame ! 

Ben  Franklin's  wife  —  'twas  she, 
That  thoughtful,  gentle,  kindly  dame, 

Who  let  him  have  the  key. 


ALILEI 
GALILEO 


Galilei  Galileo  was  an  early  man  of 

science ; 

He  was  happy  when  inventing,  or  dis 
cussing  an  appliance ; 
Pendulums,  he  found  by  study,  were  precise  in 

every  wobble  — 

Showing  how  old  Father  Time  went  in  his  never- 
ending  hobble. 

Galilei  Galileo  the  thermometer  invented 

And  informed  the  gaping  public  what  its  figures 

represented. 
"O  you  foolish  Galileo,"  cried  the  public,  "you 

shall  rue  it ! 
Why  get  up  a  thing  to  tell  us  we  are  hot  ?    We 

always  knew  it." 

Galilei  Galileo  took  a  tube  and  got  some  lenses 
And  discovered  things  that  made  him  rather 

disbelieve  his  senses ; 
He  would  point  his  telescope  up  to  the  sky  and 

then  he'd  scan  it, 
Then  go  in  to  breakfast  smiling,  for  he'd  found 

another  planet. 

Galilei  Galileo  viewed  the  luminary  solar 

(That's  the  sun)  and  found  it  spotted  on  the  belt 
and  regions  polar; 

But  he  didn't  figure  out  that  when  the  sun  was 
thickly  freckled 

Then  the  world  with  lights  and  fusses  was  continu 
ally  speckled. 

Galilei  Galileo  wrote  a  thing  and  then  denounced 

it  — 
But  we  often  read  his  name  and  wonder  how  the 

man  pronounced  it. 
Maybe  when  he  tried  to  he  was  all  at  sixes  and 

at  sevens, 
Which  is  why  he  turned  his  studies  to  the  dim 

and  distant  heavens. 

Galilei  Galileo !  What  a  musical  cognomen ! 
Possibly  some  bright  librettist  will  find  in  this 

name  an  omen 
That  presages  fortune  for  him,  and  the  stage  will 

pay  what  we  owe 
To  that  honest  old  star  gazer,  Galilei  Galileo. 


IPPOCRATES 

Hippocrates  was  father  to  an  awful  lot  of 
bother,  for  'tis  claimed  that  as  to  medi 
cine  he  was  the  pioneer, 

That  but  for  him  the  surgeon  or  the  latter- 
day  chirurgeon  might  never  have  been 
tinkering  the  human  running  gear. 

Hippocrates'  diploma  never  threw  him  into  coma 
in  his  efforts  to  decipher  what  its  classic 
diction  said, 

For  when  he  was  seeking  practice  —  long  ago  — 
the  simple  fact  is  that  the  Latin  tongue  was 
common  and  was  very  far  from  dead. 

He  often  growled, "  Dad  gum  it ! "  when  he  felt  the 

glossy  summit  of  his  head,  which  was  as  bald 

as  any  shiny  billiard  ball  — 
But  old  Hip  had  to  endure  it,  for  he  knew  he 

couldn't  cure  it,  and  that  once  his  hair  was 

falling,  why,  he  had  to  let  it  fall. 

He  was  written  up  by  Plato  (who  was  quite  a  hot 

potato  when  it  came  to  mental  effort,  for  you 

know  he  reasoned  well); 
Plato  praised  his  diagnosis,  called  him  healing's 

patient  Moses,  and  though  facts  were  hard  to 

gather,  found  a  goodly  lot  to  tell. 

Hippocrates  had  knowledge,  though  he  didn't  go  to 
college ;  he  could  speak  of  all  diseases  that  he 
knew,  in  Latin  terms 

( Still,  'twas  only  second  nature  to  affect  that  nomen 
clature),  but  he  never  even  thought  of,  much 
less  heard  of,  any  germs. 

Streptococcus  or  bacillus  such  as  get  in  us  and 

kill  us  to  Hippocrates  were  always  undiscovered 

and  unknown, 
And  the  grim  appendicitis  which  today  is  sure  to 

fright  us,  was  by  Dr.  Hip  considered  but  a 

stomach-achic  groan. 

Were  he  living  at  this  moment,  would  the  world 
be  in  a  foment  ?    Would  physicians  of  the 
present  take  him  out  to  see  the  town  ? 

From  New  Jersey  clear  to  Joppa  not  a  one  would 
call  him  "Papa,"  and  his  theories  and  treat 
ments  would  be  greeted  with  a  frown. 

We  must  say  that  he  was  clever,  and  that  in  one 

way,  however,  he  resembled  all  the  others  who 

are  treating  human  ills  — 
He  was  constantly  complaining  that  in  spite  of  all 

his  training  he  could  never  cure  his  patients 

of  the  trait  of  dodging  bills. 


AGO 


Ilago  as  a  villain  was  a  master  of  his  craft, 
And  yet  he  did  not  work  at  all  as 

modern  villains  do ; 
No  one  can  rise  and  say  that  bold  lago 

hoarsely  laughed 
When  some  one  demonstrated  that  his  stories 

were  untrue. 
He  did  not  swagger  on  the  stage  in  evening 

clothes,  and  mutter, 
Nor  bite  his  finger  nails  in  baffled  anger  now 

and  then; 
He  never  turned  and  left  the  stage  with  nothing 

else  to  utter 

Except :  "  Aha !   Proud  beauty  !    I  shall  not  be 
foiled  again!" 

lago  did  not  hover  near  the  old  deserted  mill 
To  hurl  the  daring  hero  in  the  waters  of  the 

race; 
He  never  frowned  and  ground  his  teeth  and  burned 

the  hidden  will 
Or  kidnapped  any  children  just  to  complicate 

the  case, 
lago  was  not  like  the  villains  that  we  have  at 

present ; 
He  didn't  even  try  to  scowl  or  to  look   like  the 

part, 
lago  as  a  villain  was  continually  pleasant, 

And  never  gave  the  notion  that  he  had  a  stony 
heart. 

Othello  was  his  victim  —  and  lago's  work  was  good, 
But  still  lago  doesn't  seem  to  get  the  proper 

praise ; 

Othello,  as  the  hero  —  as  all  proper  heroes  should  — 
Stood  calmly  in  the  spotlight  and  corralled  the 

wreathing  bays. 
Since  then  there  is  no  villain  of  the  art  of  good 

lago  — 

At  least  we  haven't  seen  an  actor  who  ap 
proached  him  yet ; 
The  villains  we  have  noticed  from  Galveston  to 

Chicago 

Have  hissed  through  black  mustaches  and  have 
smoked  the  cigaret. 


ONSON 


O  rare  Ben  Jonson,  you  who  wrote 

"To  Celia," 
Presager  of  that  later  note, 

"  Bedelia," 

To  you,  rare  Ben,  our  hat  we  raise 
For  all  your  poems  and  your  plays. 

You  knew,  forsooth,  if  Shakespeare's  work 

Was  taken, 
Like  copies  by  a  scrawling  clerk, 

From  Bacon; 

You  would  have  known  of  that  flimflam 
Without  a  hidden  cryptogram. 

O  rare  Ben  Jonson,  with  your  pen 

You  labored, 
And  with  brave  lords  and  gentlemen 

You  neighbored  — 
You  never  turned  out  feeble  farce 
In  sentences  that  would  not  parse. 

To  managers  you  ne'er  were  made 

To  grovel, 
And,  Ben,  you  never  called  a  spade 

A  shovel  — 

Where  you  wrote  sentences  risque* 
We  now  have  costumes  very  gay. 

O  rare  Ben  Jonson,  when  you  asked 

That  lady 
To  drink,  her  name  you  never  masked 

As  "  Sadie," 

Nor  did  you  call  her  "Creole  Belle" 
Or  half  the  song  names  we  might  tell. 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes!" 

Your  sighing 
Showed  you  no  steins  of  any  size 

Were  buying. 

But  from  the  way  the  stanzas  run, 
You,  rare  Ben  Jonson,  were  well  done. 


IDD 


Oh,  William  Kidd  was  a  pirate  bold, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho! 
He  sailed  the  seas  in  search  of  gold, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho ! 
He  sailed  on  both  sides  of  the  line, 
The  skull  and  bones  he  made  his  sign; 
Where  he  found  wealth,  he  said:  "That's  mine!" 
Three  centuries  ago. 

Oh,  William  Kidd  was  a  pirate  bad, 

Three  centuries  ago, 
A  very  dark  repute  he  had  — 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho ! 
He'd  board  a  ship  and  take  its  hoard, 
Then:  "Walk  the  plank!"  he  fiercely  roared, 
"The  ship  is  all  that  I  can  board," 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho! 

Oh,  William  Kidd  was  a  pirate  great, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho ! 
He  said:  "I'll  rob  you  while  you  wait" — 

Three  centuries  ago. 
He  had  a  long,  low,  rakish  craft 
With  Long  Toms  both  before  and  aft, 
And  wickedly  and  loud  he  laughed, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho! 

Oh,  William  Kidd  was  a  pirate  big, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho ! 
He  feared  no  frigate,  bark  or  brig, 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho! 

And  while  his  grim  flag  flapped  and  tossed 
Above  the  ship  that  Bill  Kidd  bossed, 
His  victims  knew  just  how  they  lost, 

Three  centuries  ago. 

Oh,  William  Kidd  was  a  pirate  then, 

Three  centuries  ago. 
If  he  should  come  to  life  again  — 

Yo  ho,  my  lads,  yo  ho ! 
The  chances  are  that  he  would  just 
Go  out  and  organize  a  trust  — 
He  knew  the  way  to  raise  the  dust 

Three  centuries  ago. 


UCULLUS 


Lucullus  was  a  fighter  for  a  portion  of 

his  life ; 
He  won   the  bay  and  laurel   by  his 

prowess  in  the  strife. 
He  came  back  home  a  hero  (and  no   doubt,  just  as 

today, 
They  named  a  cocktail  for  him  ere  they  looked 

the  other  way). 
But  when  Lucullus  noticed  he  was  losing  grips  on 

fame, 
He  struck  a  happy  notion  to  perpetuate  his  name. 

He  took  to  giving  dinners  in  a  palace  he  had 

built  — 
'Tis  said  that  lots  was  eaten  and  a  sea  of  wine 

was  spilt ; 
That  guests  might  order  anything  in  dishes  old 

or  new 

•And  get  the  very  rarest,  and  a  second  order,  too! 
Quick  lunches  or  course  dinners  —  anything  a  man 

could  wish 
In  the  line  of  drinks  or  dainties ;  yet  he  was  no 

nouveatt  riche. 

Lucullus  won  great  battles,  victories  that  he  might 

boast, 
Yet  today  we  recollect  him  merely  as  a  lavish 

host. 
It  is  said  that  once  he  ordered  quite  the  richest 

feast  prepared 
But  no  guests  came  to  enjoy  it,  and  the  busy  chef 

was  scared. 
"  Is  nobody  here  for  dinner  ?  "  asked  the  flustered, 

pestered  chef. 
"I  am  dining  with  Lucullus!"  roared  Lucullus.  "Are 

you  deaf?  " 

But  we  think  that  one  great  reason  for  his  never- 
dying  fame, 

For  the  pure,  unfading  luster  of  his  dinner-eating 
name, 

Is  that  though  Lucullus  feasted  at  a  very  great 
expense 

And  sat  down  to  simple  breakfasts  where  the 
health  foods  were  immense, 

He  was  gracious  to  his  fellows,  was  considerate 
of  each, 

And  he  never  put  his  chestnuts  in  an  after-dinner 
speech. 


EtHU- 
SELAH 


Methuselah  lived  long  ago  — 

He  was  the  Old  Inhabitant 
Those  times,  but  never  had  a  show; 

His  opportunities  were  scant. 
Although  he  lived  nine  centuries 

And  three-score  years  and  nine  beside, 
The  times  he  saw  were  not  like  these, 
A  chance  to  spread  he  was  denied. 

He  could  not  seek  the  corner  store 

And  lunch  on  crackers,  cheese  and  prunes, 
And  there  display  his  helpful  lore 

Through  mornings  and   through  afternoons; 
He  could  not  talk  about  the  days 

When  folks  first  saw  the  telegraph 
Or  telephone ;  how  their  amaze 

Made  better  posted  people  laugh. 


Here, 


He  could  not  take  the  stranger  out 

To  some  tall  building,  then  say : 
An'  for  a  good  ways  hereabout, 

I  used  to  shoot  the  bear  and  deer." 
Skyscrapers  were  an  unknown  thing, 

Excepting  Babel,  in  his  land, 
And  Babel  only  served  to  bring 

Speech  that  he  could  not  understand. 

(Perhaps  this  Babel  item  is 

Anachronistic;  as  to  that 
We'll  say  one  pleasant  thing  was  his: 

He  never  had  to  rent  a  flat. )  „ 
Another  joy  in  his  career 

Was  this :  nobody  ever  told 
Methuselah  the  stated  year 

When  he  should  be  considered  old. 

At  thirty-five  he  was  not  barred 

From  working  if  he  wanted  to; 
He  did  not  need  a  union  card 

His  daily  labors  to  pursue ; 
And  when  his  hair  was  snowy  white 

And  age  his  manly  form  had  bent, 
Nobody  called  him  young  and  bright 

And  ran  him  for  vice-president. 


EWTON 

Now,  Newton  in  the  orchard  felt  an 

apple  strike  his  head. 
"'Tis  gravity!    'Tis  gravity!"  excit 
edly  he  said. 
Had  you  or  I  been  sitting  there 

a-thinking  of  this  earth, 
As  Newton  was,  and  wondering  about  its  size  and 

girth, 
And  just  when  we  were  figuring  a  long  and  heavy 

sum, 

The  apple  hit  us  on  the  mind  and  made  our  bald 
spot  numb! 

We  say,  had  you  or  I  been  there,  as  Newton  was 

that  day, 
Would  there  have  been  much  gravity  in  what  we 

had  to  say  ? 

This  shows  how  great  it  is  to  have  a  scientific  mind — 
An  intellect  that  reaches  out  to  see  what  it  may  find. 
Perchance  an  ordinary  man  in  such  a  circumstance 
Would  have  got  up  and  rubbed  his  head  and  done 

a  little  dance, 
And   muttered  things  that  gentle  folks  should 

scarcely  ever  state, 
And  not  concede  the  apple  simply  had  to  gravitate. 

Again  we  say,  if  Newton's  place  was  held  by  you  or  I, 
Instead  of  gravity  we  might  have  thought  of 
apple  pie. 

You  see  (again  we  make  the  point  that  scientific 

minds 
Discover  facts  which  any  brain  that's  common 

never  finds), 
You  see,  when  Newton  felt  the  jolt,  his  science 

did  not  stop  — 
He  simply  meditated  on  "What  made  the  apple 

drop  ?  " 

And  while  in  cogitation  deep  beneath  the  tree  he  lay, 
He  mused:  "It's  odd  that  apples  never  drop  the 

other  way." 

Once  more :  "  If  you  or  I  had  been  beneath  the 

apple  tree, 
We  might  have  howled:  "Who  was  it  threw  that 

apple  and  hit  me?" 

To  finish  this,  however,  with  becoming  gravity, 
We'll  state  that  Newton  lingered  there  beneath  the 

apple  tree; 

With  logarithmic  tables  he  discovered  that  the  speed 
At  which  the  apple  fell  was  based  on  whence  it  fell  — indeed, 
Had  it  dropped  from  the  moon,  we'll  say,  it  would  have  grown  so  hot 
That  it  would  have  been  melted  up  before  to  earth  it  got. 

Again,  and  finally,  had  you  or  I  held  Newton's  seat, 

We  should,  like  he  did,  take  the  apple  up  and  start  to  eat. 


MAR 


Old  Omar,  in  a  Tent  he  had  to  live, 
Yet  gave  to  Verse  such  Time  as  he 

could  give ; 
Whereat  the  Critics  rose  and 

Hurled  at  Him : 

"  The  Stuff  you  write  is  only  Tenta 
tive." 

Yet  Khayyam  never  worried  over  that  — 
He  kept  his  Troubles  underneath  his  Hat 

Except  such  Times  as  when  he  worked  them  up 
Into  an  Apt  and  Pleasing  Rubaiyat. 

Fitzgerald,  the  Translator,  took  his  Pen 
And  made  a  flowing  Version;  yes,  and  then 

To  show  that  he  could  keep  it  up  a  While, 
Translated  all  the  Rubaiyat  again. 

Now,  is  there  any  Home  that  Don't  reveal 
O.  Khayyam's  volume  resting  by  "  Lucille," 

Bound  in  Limp  Leather,  with  each  Edge  uncut, 
To  show  the  Literary  Sense  we  feel? 


And  is  there  any  town  from  York  to  Butte 
Wherein  some  Maiden  fair  don't  Elocute 

Through  Khayyam's  easy-speaking  poetry, 
With  Musical  Accomp'niment  to  suit? 

Aye,  verily!    And  where  the  Parodist 

Who  does  not  seek  through  all  upon  his  List 

And  come  back  at  the  last  to  Khayyam's  work 
Each  time  to  find  New  Chances  he  has  missed? 

A  Good  Cigar,  a  ready  Fountain  Pen 
Or  a  Typewriter  one  can  use,  and  then 

A  book  of  Omar  whence  to  draw  the  Thought  — 
Oh,  Parodies  one  will  turn  out  again ! 

Some  black  initial  letters  here  and  there, 
Perchance  he  also  had  E.  Hubbard  Hair—     . 

But  anyhow  old  Khayyam  set  a  Task 
To  fill  all  his  Successors  with  despair ! 


EPYS 


Perchance  when  he  was  working  on 

The  diary  that  bears  his  name 
In  those  far  days,  now  dead  and  gone, 
He  never  dreamed  about  his  fame. 
Yet  now,  from  time  to  time,  it  is 

Heard  from 'most  everybody's  lips  — 
That  magic,  mellow  name  of  his, 

The  soft  and  pleasing  name  of  Pepys. 

Again,  when  reading  what  he  wrote, 

We  live  anew  that  ancient  time 
(The  book  is  one  we  often  quote  — 

The  cheap  editions  are  a  dime); 
We  mark  his  course  through  dingy  streets 

And  climb  with  him  the  palace  steps; 
In  fancy  all  of  those  one  meets 

Remark:  "Why,  there  goes  Mr.  Pepys!" 

He  always  had  a  seeing  eye 

And  hearing  ear,  and  what  he  saw 
And  what  he  heard  he  fain  would  try 

To  set  down,  but  evade  the  law 
And  that  is  why  in  cipher  dark 

The  tale  originally  creeps  — 
'Twas  thus,  also,  he  made  his  mark, 

This  man  of  truth  and  trouble,  Pepys. 

Throughout  his  life  he  had  his  griefs 

And  also  had  a  little  fun  — 
He  kept  his  eye  upon  his  chiefs 

And  tells  the  things  they  might  have  done 
If  they  had  not  done  what  they  did. 

Ah,  if  each  person  now  should  keep  his 
Own  diary  and  raise  the  lid 

As  did  this  honest  Samuel  Pepys! 

And  so,  you  see,  he  made  a  name 

Whereon  the  critics  sometimes  pounce ; 
It  hardly  ever  sounds  the  same, 

It  is  so  easy  to  pronounce. 
But  still,  there  is  an  hour  or  so 

Of  pleasure  for  the  man  who  dips 
Into  his  book  and  comes  to  know 

Good  Samuel  Pepys,  Peps  or  Pips. 


UINTILIAN 


Quintilian,  years  and  years  ago, 

Was  It  on  oratory; 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero 

He  studied  con  amore ; 
He  ran  an  elocution  school 

And  taught  the  Roman  lispers 
The  reason  and  the  rote  and  rule 

For  requesting  father,  dear  father,  to  come  home 
with  me  now,  in  most  pathetic  whispers. 

'Twas  he  who  showed  that  thus  and  thus 

One  should  appear  when  stating 
The  last  remarks  of  Spartacus 

On  ceasing  gladiating. 
(Perchance  the  word  we  just  have  used 

Escaped  your  dictionary. 
We  mean  when  Spartacus  refused 

To  be  butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday 
exceedingly  exciting  and  otherwise  glad 
some  and  merry.) 

Quintilian's  book  on  How  to  Speak 

Is  classic  at  this  moment ; 
It  tells  the  speaker  when  to  shriek 

And  when  his  rage  to  foment. 
The  boy  who  on  commencement  day 

Cites  Patrick  Henry's  speeches 
Must  do  so  in  Quintilian's  way 

When  a  single  order  of  liberty,  with  a  supple 
mental  second  choice  of  death,  he  beseeches. 

The  actor  who  would  thrill  the  crowd 

(A  blood  and  marrow  freezer) 
By  handing  out  in  accents  proud 

"Mark  Antony  on  Caesar," 
Must  heed  the  rules  set  down  by  Quint., 

And  so  must  he  who  rises 
To  heights  of  glowing  fame  by  dint 

Of  the  justly  famous  to  be  or  not  to  be,  center 
of  the  stage,  two  spotlights  sizzling,  when 
he  as  Hamlet  soliloquizes. 

Quintilian,  we  are  fain  to  say, 

Was  It  on  oratory, 
And  even  in  this  later  day 

Receives  his  share  of  glory, 
Except  when  elocutionists 

Our  peace  and  comfort  mangle, 
By  showing  how  fair  Bessie's  wrists 

Were  strained  and  bruised  while  swinging 
around  in  the  belfry  the  time  she  said  the 
curfew  should  not  jangle. 


ALEIGH 


Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  a  man 

Of  excellent  deportment; 
He  could  advise  a  King  or  Khan 

What  going  into  court  meant; 
When  Spenser  wrote  his  Faerie  Queene 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  said  it 
Betrayed  a  wit  both  sharp  and  clean 
(We  wonder  if  he  read  it.). 

Good  Queen  Elizabeth  one  day 

Was  out  (perhaps  for  shopping), 
And  Raleigh  chanced  along  the  way 

Where  she  in  wrath  was  stopping. 
"  How  can  I  get  across  that  mud  ? " 

She  asked;  and  in  the  muddle 
Sir  Walter  showed  his  gentle  blood  — 

His  cloak  soon  bridged  the  puddle. 

A  smile  replaced  the  good  queen's  frown, 

She  paused  there  for  a  minute 
To  set  more  straight  the  royal  crown 

(It  had  no  hat  pin  in  it). 
And  then  she  murmured  low  to  Walt.: 

"Sir,  you  shall  see  my  tailor." 
He  answered:  "If  I'm  worth  my  salt, 

Good  queen,  make  me  a  sailor!" 

And  so  good  Queen  Elizabeth 

Gave  him  a  high  position  — 
He  drew  his  pay  like  drawing  breath 

And  led  an  expedition 
That  sailed  across  the  raging  seas 

For  gold  and  slaves  and  cocoa, 
And  battled  with  the  biting  breeze 

Along  the  Orinoco. 

Alas!    It  may  have  been  the  cloak 

That  was  in  mire  imbedded, 
Or  possibly  some  words  he  spoke 

That  made  him  be  beheaded. 
But  let  us  learn  this  lesson  here 

From  poor  Sir  Walter  Raleigh: 
The  favor  of  the  great,  'tis  queer, 

Oft  has  a  grim  finale. 


HAKSPEARE 


Shakspeare,  as  all  of  us  have  read, 

Once  asked :  "  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 
An  alias  for  the  rose,  he  said, 

Would  make  it  smell  the  same. 
But  Shakspeare  was  so  frivolous  — 

Excuse  us  if  we  say 
That  it  has  always  seemed  to  us 
His  work  was  mostly  play. 

As  "  Shaxpere,"  "  Shakspere,"  "  Shaikspeare,"  too, 

His  signature  is  found; 
His  autographs  are  much  too  few 

To  be  passed  all  around. 
This  shows  the  cumulative  worth 

Of  honest,  solid  fame ; 
The  bidders  come  from  all  the  earth 

To  buy  his  misspelled  name. 

He  dramatized  the  thrilling  scene 

Where  Caesar  met  his  end, 
Where  Casca,  hungry,  lank  and  lean, 

And  Brutus,  Caesar's  friend, 
Stabbed  swiftly  with  their  daggers  bright 

When  Julius  came  in  reach  — 
Then  Antony,  thrilled  at  the  sight, 

Arose  and  made  a  speech. 

No  chorus  girls  were  in  his  shows; 

In  them  no  "social  queens" 
Were  given  princely  wage  to  pose 

And  dignify  the  scenes. 
But  there  be  those  who  say  there  are 

Odd  facts  that  can't  be  passed: 
For  instance,  oft  we  see  a  star 

With  ciphers  in  the  cast  — 

And  this  leads  many  to  declare 

That  Bacon  wrote  the  shows; 
A  cryptic  secret  hidden  there 

They  say  they  will  disclose. 
It  may  be  that  each  drama  hoards 

A  Bacon  cryptogram, 
For  often,  proud  upon  the  boards 

There  struts  and  strides  a  ham. 


ELL 


The  tale  of  Tell  is  simply  told ; 

He  would  not  heed  the  tyrant. 
But,  big  and  brave  and  bluffiy  bold 
He  spurned  the  cold  aspirant  — 
He  simply  came  out  plain  and  flat 

And  his  own  rights  defended ; 
He  would  not  bow  to  Gessler's  hat 
Upon  the  pole  suspended. 

Then  Gessler  came  upon  the  scene 

And  ordered  Tell  to  knuckle; 
Tell  fixed  him  with  his  glances  keen 

And  gave  a  scornful  chuckle. 
Then  Gessler  frowned  and  knit  his  brows 

(A  most  portentous  omen); 
"  Risk  your  boy's  life  or  make  those  bows ! ' 

(We've  lost  the  boy's  cognomen.) 

Tell  smiled,  and  got  his  trusty  bow, 

Likewise  his  trusty  arrow 
(Now,  William  Tell,  as  you  should  know, 

Could  wing  the  fleeting  sparrow 
Or  he  could  truly  shoot  the  chutes)  — 

So  Gessler  said :  "  Now  grapple 
With  this  one  fact — for  you  the  boots 

Unless  you  cleave  the  apple." 

Did  Tell  succeed  ?    In  your  school  books 

The  tale  is  very  well  told, 
And  Gessler  looked  some  haughty  looks- 

When  he  heard  what  Bill  Tell  told. 
"  What  did  you  hide  this  arrow  for  ?  " 

Asked  Gessler  of  the  wizard. 
"I  meant  to  split  that  apple,  or 

I'd  have  to  harm  your  gizzard!" 

That's  all,  except  it  shall  endure 

As  acted  by  Salvini. 
(But  was  it?)    And  the  overture 

Composed  by  one  Rossini 
Shall  prove  that  Tell  is  not  a  myth 

Concocted  to  deceive  us. 
We've  seen  the  bow  he  did  it  with; 

We  hope  you  will  believe  us. 


LYSSES 


Unusually  popular  with  mythologic  misses, 
And  rather  wont  to  wander  when  he 

should  have  stayed  at  home, 
We  find  is  why  our  hero,  the  redoubtable 

Ulysses, 
Went  rambling  into  trouble  when  he  thought 

that  he  would  roam. 

Penelope,  good  lady,  left  behind  in  their  apartment, 
Had  trouble  in  her  efforts  to  get  cash  to  pay 

the  rent  — 
Telemachus,  their  scion,  knew  not  then  what  being 

smart  meant ; 

He  should  have  helped  his  mamma,  but  he 
never  earned  a  cent. 

Ulysses,  in  the  meantime,  found  the  land  of  the 

Cyclopes, 

And  came  within  an  ace  of  being  made  into  a  stew. 
He  drugged  old  Polyphemus,  then  skedaddled  with: 

"  I  hope  'e  's 
Laid  up  with  indigestion,"  and  went  onward 

with  his  crew. 
From  there  he  ambled  farther  till  he  reached  the 

realm  of  Circe" ; 

We  translate  rather  freely  from  the  Odyssean  log: 
"  She  proved  to  be  a  lady  with  no  tenderness  or 

mercy, 

Each  comrade  of  Ulysses,  for  her  sport,  was 
made  a  hog." 

He  got  away,  however,  and  he  steered  his  trusty 

ship  so 
That  it  would  take  him  quickly  where  more 

trouble  might  be  found  — 
He  grounded  on  the  island  of  the  nymph  they 

called  Calypso, 
And  dallied  in  her  presence  till  eight  years  had 

rolled  around. 
Homesickness  must  have  struck  him  not  so  many 

years  thereafter; 
He  sighed:  "I  think  the  time  has  come  for  me 

to  pull  my  freight." 
The  listeners  had  trouble  when  they  tried  to  hold 

their  laughter 

At  thinking  of  how  long  it  was  before  he  knew 
'twas  late. 

Penelope,  fond  woman,  had  been  wooed  by  many 

suitors ; 

To  each  and  every  one  of  them  she  firmly  whispered  "  No." 
Ulysses,  on  appearing,  changed  the  suitors  into  scooters  — 

He  strode  into  the  parlor  and  said :  "  Take  your  hats  and  go ! " 
Old  Homer  tells  us  fully  how  Penelope  received  him, 

And  how,  to  give  her  pleasure,  all  these  stories  he  would  weave : 
He  also  tells  us  solemnly  Penelope  believed  him! 

(That  portion  of  the  Odyssey  we  never  can  believe.) 


ILLON 


Villon  —  bard  of  the  early  times, 
Familiarly  called  Francois — 
'Twas  he  who  juggled  so  with  rhymes 
That  we  regard  him  now  with  awe ; 
His  Pegasus  knew  "Gee"  from  "Haw"- 
He  drove  with  all  a  jockey's  art 
And  ran  each  race  without  a  flaw — 
Villon  gave  these  ballades  their  start. 

Must  he  flee  to  some  safer  climes  ? 

Did  hunger  at  his  vitals  gnaw? 
Or  was  he  jailed  for  varied  crimes  ? 

In  that  he  inspiration  saw 

And,  pen  held  in  a  grimy  paw 
Would  let  his  flashing  fancy  dart 

Ofttimes  in  measures  rather  raw  — 
Villon  gave  these  ballades  their  start. 

His  purse  was  ever  bare  of  dimes; 

He  often  felt  the  grip  of  law ; 
Yet  he,  the  jolliest  of  mimes, 

Who  slept  most  nights  upon  the  straw 

And  wakened  to  the  raucous  caw 
Of  ravens,  never  shirked  his  part ; 

He  never  stopped  at  fate  to  jaw  — 
Villon  gave  these  ballades  their  start. 

L'ENVOI 

Princess,  the  moral's  here  to  draw : 

When  poets  go  into  the  mart 
The  editors  say  coldly:  "Pshaw! 

Villon  gave  these  ballades  their  start." 


ATT 


When  Watt  was  but  a  little  boy  — 
His  papa's  pride,  his  mama's  joy  — 
He  sat  beside  the  kitchen  fire 
The  bubbling  teapot  to  admire; 

And  as  he  watched  the  hissing  steam 

He  straightway  then  began  to  dream 

Of  what  the  vapor  hot  could  do 

If  how  to  use  it  he  but  knew. 

Eventually  he  devised 

A  neat  invention  which  surprised 

The  people  of  that  early  day  — 

He  made  an  engine,  anyway. 

This  poor  contrivance  he  improved 

Until  by  it  great  loads  were  moved 

And  horses  were  displaced  by  rails, 

While  sidewheels  took  the  place  of  sails. 

Observe,  my  child,  how  one  small  thing 
A  wondrous  lot  of  change  will  bring: 
Because  wise  little  Jimmy  Watt 
Could  turn  to  some  account  his  thought, 
Today  the  trains  go  whizzing  through 
The  land,  and  o'er  the  ocean  blue 
The  mighty  ships  scoot  night  and  day 
From  here  to  countries  far  away. 

Great  thanks  are  due  to  this  James  Watt, 
Also  to  his  mama's  teapot, 
By  porters  who  on  every  trip 
Hold  up  the  tourist  for  a  tip, 
And  also  by  that  mighty  mass 
Of  folks  who  travel  on  a  pass, 
And  by  the  ones  who  rake  in  rocks 
Through  squeezes  that  they  work  in  stocks. 

But  that  it  would  like  punning  seem 

We'd  say  Watt  has  the  world's  esteem 

(But  since  we've  said  it  that  way  now 

We'll  let  the  pun  go,  anyhow ). 

But,  somehow,  when  we  chanced  to  stop 

Beside  some  busy  boiler  shop, 

We  cannot  say  that  peace  was  brought 

To  all  of  us  by  Jimmy  Watt. 


ANTIPPE 


Xantippe  was  the  lady  who  was  wed  to 

Socrates  — 
And  their  life  was  not  a  grand,  sweet 

song; 
'Twas  a  study — just  a  study  — done  in 

all  the  minor  keys 

With  the  gloomy  measures  turned  on  strong. 
When  old  Socrates  was  busy  at  the  office,  she 

would  wait 

Till  he  ambled  in  at  3  a.  m. 

And  she  met  him  in  the  moonlight  'twixt  the  door 
way  and  the  gate  — 
Then  the  neighbors  heard  a  lot  from  them. 

But  Socrates  —  he   didn't  mind  when  she  pulled  out 

his  hair, 
When  she  would  box  his  ears  for  him  he  didn't 

seem  to  care  — 
In  a  manner  bland  and  wise 
He  would  then  philosophize 

On  the  Whyness  of  the  Whichness  of  the  Neither 
Here  Nor  There. 

Xantippe  did  the  cooking,  and  (we  have  to  tell  the 

truth )  — 

Indigestion  quickly  seized  on  him, 
And  in  one  of  her  biscuits  on  a  time  he  broke  a  tooth, 

Yet  he  smiled  across  at  wifey  grim. 
When  she  tried  her  hand  at  pastry  was  the  only 

time  he  spoke, 

And  of  course  he  had  to  make  a  break  — 
'Twas  perhaps  the  first  appearance  of  the  ever 
lasting  joke 
On  the  pies  that  mother  used  to  make. 

Poor  Socrates!    He  never  even  ducked  his  head 

or  dodged 
But  merely  rubbed  the   spot  whereon   the  flying 

platter  lodged, 

Then  he  murmured :  "  Xanty,  dear, 
You  have  made  a  problem  clear" — 
Then  he  went  to  get  the  swelling  on  his  cranium 
massaged. 

Xantippe  wouldn't  let  him  smoke  at  all  about  the 

place, 

And  she  wouldn't  let  him  take  a  drink. 
He  never  learned  the  value  of  a  two-spot  or  an  ace  — 

For  'most  all  that  he  could  do  was  think. 
Thus  you  see  that  though  Xantippe  has  been 

fiercely  criticized, 

Yet  she  really  made  her  husband's  fame, 
For  'twas  while  she  bossed  him  sorely  that  the 

great  man  analyzed 
All  the  subjects  that  have  made  his  name. 

Xantippe  made  him  famous;  but  for  her  the  man  had  been 
Forgotten  like  the  others  of  the  time  that  he  lived  in. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  such  a  help !  " 

He  most  gratefully  would  yelp 
When  she  gave  him  an  impression  with  a  busy  rolling-pin. 


VETOT 


There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 

And  easy  was  his  head, 
Serene  his  rest — naught  would  suggest 

The  words  so  often  said, 
That  crowned  heads  are  not  peaceful; 

He  never  wore  a  frown  — 
He  laughed  away  the  night  and  day, 
With  gayly  tilted  crown. 

The  jester  of  his  palace 

Was  never  forced  to  work, 
He  never  had  to  make  things  glad 

With  oily  smile  and  smirk. 
This  jolly  king  of  Yvetot 

Had  no  need  of  his  fool  — 
He  made  his  own  jests  from  the  throne 

And  pleasure  was  his  rule. 

He  never  had  a  quarrel 

With  any  other  king; 
"  Why  should  we  fight  ?  "  he  asked.    "  Delight 

Is  such  an  easy  thing." 
He  told  no  one  his  troubles  — 

In  truth,  he  reigned  so  well 
No  one  could  know,  in  fair  Yvetot, 

Of  troubles  fit  to  tell. 

The  little  realm  of  Yvetot  — 

A  wee  spot  on  the  map  — 
Has  made  a  name  secure  in  fame 

Because  of  this  rare  chap 
Who  put  his  crown  on  sidewise 

And  lolled  upon  his  throne 
With  scepter  set  so  that  it  met 

His  active  funny  bone. 

He  was  to  war  a  stranger ; 

His  kingdom  had  no  debt ; 
Each  of  his  laws  possessed  a  clause 

That  barred  out  care  and  fret  — 
'Tis  told  that  when  expiring 

He  wasted  his  last  breath 
In  one  long  laugh  in  life's  behalf, 

And  thus  went  to  his  death. 

There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot  — 

There  are  such  kings  today ; 
They  never  sigh  for  things  gone  by 

But  laugh  along  the  way. 
So,  crown  yourself  with  laughter, 

Put  pleasure  on  the  throne, 
And  you'll  possess  in  happiness 

An  Yvetot  of  your  own. 


ENOBIA 


Zenobia  was  empress  of  the  people  of 

Palmyra; 
She  tried  to  boss  the  army  when  she 

should  have  stayed  at  home. 
Aurelian,  the  soldier,  led  a  sort  of  a  hegira 
Of  armies  up  to  fight  her  — they  came  all  the 
way  from  Rome. 

Full  soon  he  was  pursuing  them,  with  spears  and 

daggers  "  shooing"  them, 
At  last  he  sent  them  to  defeat   and  caught  the 

doughty  queen. 
He  captured  her  regretfully,  he  said,  but  she  said 

fretfully 

That  she  considered  him  a  spiteful  thing,  and 
very,  very  "  mean." 

He  led  her  back  a  captive  with  her  hands  in 

jeweled  fetters, 
Though  she  cast  on  Aurelian  a  look  of  proud 

disdain; 
Her  manacles  were  carved  and   chased  and  decked 

by  jewel  setters, 

And  to  securely  hold  her  he  had  made  a  golden 
chain. 

There  is  a  lot  of  mystery  connected  with  all 

history  — 

Zenobia,  they  tell  us,  didn't  want  to  go  to  jail, 
But,  think  of  such  a  fate  as  that !    Why,  such  a 

jeweled  weight  as  that 

Was  better  than  to  pawn  your  clothes  and  be 
released  on  bail! 

Zenobia  was  taken  to  the  royal  Roman  palace 
And  there  the  charming  prisoner,  we  read,  was 

quite  the  rage  — 
Had  she  lived  in  this  time  of  ours  (we  say  this 

without  malice), 

She  might  have  made  a  lasting  hit  by  going 
on  the  stage. 

Aurelian  was  nice  to  her  —  he  hinted  more  than 

twice  to  her 
That  he  was  getting  pretty  tired  of  kinging  it 

alone. 
You  see,  she  might  have  captured  him  —  already 

she  enraptured  him  — 

And  had  that  handcuff  jewelry  to  wear  upon 
the  throne. 

But,  no!   Zenobia  was  like 'most  any  other  lady  — 
They've  been  the  same  since  mother  Eve;  they 

have  the  same  way  still: 
No  matter  if  it's  Princess  May,  or  Susie,  Sal  or 

Sadie, 

No  lady  will  consent  to  be  convinced  against 
her  will. 

At  last  they  told  her  civilly,  "You'll  have  to  live  in  Tivoli" 

(Which  may  or  may  not  be  the  way  to  speak  that  city's  name). 

She  answered  very  prettily:   "I'll  love  to  live  in  Italy"  — 

And  there  she  stayed  until  she  was  an  old,  forgotten  dame. 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


3401 A  G 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


